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by tentamentum (exprsslyfrbidden)



Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: Established Relationship, F/F, Fluff, Slice of Life, Smut, sorta - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-13
Updated: 2017-07-15
Packaged: 2018-12-01 19:46:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 2,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11493465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/exprsslyfrbidden/pseuds/tentamentum
Summary: They have so many memories, etched into the walls of Emily's apartment. Every room has a different meaning.





	1. front hall

_ front hall  _

here Emily had shoved JJ against the wall hard like she’d wanted it to hurt but it’d only turned JJ on, it’d only knocked the air out of her lungs and she’d sucked pure lust back in. there she’d swept the key dish off the table. shattered it to hoist JJ on top of the wooden surface to yank her slacks off and sink her fingers into sweet,  _ sweet  _ wet heat. JJ had cried out, body arching, hands grasping sweaty on the table. 

 

“fuck,” she’d gasped. her thighs had pinned Emily’s wrist. hair, stuck to her neck. hands, clawing at Emily’s jacket, wanting skin and not getting it. “take this off,” she’d demanded, then lost her voice to Emily’s fingers. 

 

they’d almost broken the table that time. but oh. the walls, that front door. Emily remembers once JJ pinning her to it pressing her cheek into the wood twisting her hand behind her back growling, low and sexy and  _ oh so delicious  _ what she’d do to Emily, what’d she say, and how it’d feel, and then, and then, and  _ then.  _

 

she’d left, after plucking Emily tighter than a bowstring. left to finish dinner and Emily had groaned, nails digging into wood, pants tight, body hot, wanting like an open wound. 

 

the floor, the rug from Egypt that she’d gotten on a trip that one time for that one thing that she doesn’t recall. now though it’s images of JJ laughing, shirt half-off, pants unbuttoned, hickeys darkening on her skin and sweat shining. they’d fallen there after a messy kiss, a desperate one, after a week-long trip to Canada, a too-long trip to Canada. Emily had tripped, sprawling on the rug under an uncaring JJ, huffing laughter in the nonexistent space between their mouths and nursing her bruised elbows with sweet, I-missed-you kisses. 

 

it’s an entry point, a beginning; there Emily had confessed those three precious words, had tossed them like her keys into the air and JJ had caught them, returned them like she had when Emily broke the key dish and JJ bought her a new one. 


	2. living room

_ living room  _

a soft space, one of comfort and sleepiness and enjoyment and lots and lots of alcohol. 

 

the couch, a place for late-night movies and hot make out sessions, a place for unwinding, a sleeping spot and where Emily goes to read. movies, television, binge-watching and then the other parts of that phrase. the couch is where they  _ Netflix _ ; the cushions have experienced the  _ and chill _ . JJ likes to touch Emily always. just a little bit, the hands or feet or arms or legs, brushing against each other, fingers linked, legs tangled. she touches and it goes from casual to innocent to purposeful to teasing to heavy to hot to desperate and then Emily will complain that the leather is gonna get dirty. 

 

JJ will then rebut that with the fact that they’ve  _ been  _ dirty now, several times, and it’s not like Emily’s complaining, now is she? 

 

it’s also where they go to just exist. when the cases leave them drained, leave them wondering what good they’re doing in a world that seems to only foster hatred and pain and loss and agony. Emily lies on the couch. she reads. she stares at the words, drowns herself in other worlds where she’s not there to prevent death but there to just enjoy other’s  _ lives _ for once. JJ watches her. stares, thanks every god, every deity, that they’re both there. safe. unharmed. 

 

it’s also where they go to have quiet conversations, like the conversation about moving in together, about what to have for dinner, about how Morgan’s doing after that case or how Hotch would feel if they threw him a birthday party. where they talk in low voices and look at each other with stars in their eyes. 


	3. kitchen

_ kitchen _

a place of creation. where they make things, namely dinner, but also where Emily makes JJ come, where they make each other breathless with kisses and drunk on love until they don’t even need the wine. 

 

the counter. there they’d laughed and tried to make cookies and gotten flour in places that they didn’t know existed, had kissed and gotten chocolate on clothes, frosting on faces and kisses sweeter than cream. there JJ had dropped to her knees and thanked Emily for having a towel on the floor before settling between Emily’s thighs; there she’d given Emily a proper welcome home after too long spent apart for something or other. the favor had been returned in the bedroom, where they always seem to end up, gravitating like planets caught in the pulsing aura of a black hole. but a good one. 

 

the kitchen, where they laugh. lots and lots of laughter here. it’s where Emily teaches JJ how to cook, how to not mistake sugar for salt or vice versa, how to correctly deal with hot things so she doesn’t burn herself again and then get distracted by Emily giving her feel-better kisses and then leave the stove on and almost burn the apartment down. it’s a making place. making memories, like:

 

the first time JJ came over, before kitchen kisses were a thing, before kissing was a thing they both thought possible. she’d exclaimed over Sergio and then they’d sat on the kitchen floor for a few hours, stroking the cat and talking about nothing in particular but falling deeper just the same. 

 

the first time they kissed. it was a case — always a case — and JJ had been exhausted. they both were, but Emily had driven and while JJ hadn’t wanted to intrude, Emily had very much wanted her to and so she’d stayed. Emily had cooked up some pasta, whipped up some sauce. she’d been at the sink, up to elbows with suds. JJ had felt bad about not doing anything, but Emily had told her not to worry, had glanced over her shoulder with that stupid silly adorable apron that said  _ kiss the cook  _ in FBI font and JJ had asked, “Can I?” 

 

“Can you what?” 

 

She’d gestured to the apron, Emily had blinked,  _ understood.  _ “...Sure,” she’d said, disbelieving. 

 

JJ had kissed her and she’d tasted like Italian and they’d laughed, they’d laughed and Emily had gotten soap in JJ’s hair and then of course she’d had to stay for the shower. that night, they’d both realized how good it felt to not sleep alone anymore. 


	4. dining room

_ dining room  _

JJ had asked once, why Emily had a dining room if she never had people over. 

 

“I have people over!” she’d protested. “You’re a — you’re people.” 

 

“But I’m usually  _ under  _ you,” JJ had pointed out, sensibly, “plus, I’m your girlfriend.” 

 

it gives a good sense of what the dining room is for: nothing, really. occasional bouts of sex when a sturdy table is needed. dinner, when neither of them have cleaned the table and case files don’t want to be cleaned away. a work table, when there are too  _ many _ case files for the kitchen table. 

 

those are times when work brings itself home and then makes itself known in long nights that shouldn’t be so tiring, aching eyes and endless notes that no longer make sense. those are times when JJ falls asleep at the table and Emily carries her to bed. those are times when Emily stares into space and forgets what she’s doing until JJ nudges her with a gentle toe. those are the not fun times. 

 

the fun times come when Emily (finally) invites the team over for a Thanksgiving dinner. an early one, because they usually do it at a restaurant and Morgan has to go home, back to Chicago, but one nonetheless. that’s a fun time, because Morgan has to ask where the trash can is and JJ answers before Emily. they tease them about that for a good while because then they hadn’t been out to the team yet — not officially at least — and JJ had blushed, so prettily (as Emily told her later, under the quiet of dark) that neither of them could deny spending more time with each other than normal. 

 

they’d come clean after Christmas, admitting after a round of secret santa that they’d been dating for months. 

 

Morgan had crowed in victory, fist pumping. Reid had looked confused, if not happy for the both of them. Garcia had beamed at them both, proud as a mother would be of her children. Neither Hotch or Rossi had been surprised; they were profilers, after all. 

  
later that night they’d found the sprig of mistletoe hung in the hallway (a gift from Morgan) and their friends (their  _ family) _ had cheered when they kissed. 


	5. bathroom

_ bathroom  _

a transitional space, a medley of hurt and laughter and love and exhaustion. 

 

hurt. they’d been in the bedroom, had argued about something — no longer important now — and Emily had shouted, voice rising loud and frightening and JJ hadn’t wanted to leave hadn’t wanted to be in the same space as Emily, so she had locked herself in the bathroom. 

 

Emily had spent a good hour cajoling her out, promises and apologies and unseen pouts dropping from her mouth like candy. JJ had unlocked the door, sitting on the edge of the tub with arms crossed, unamused. Emily had given her a sheepish, apologetic smile from her own position on the floor outside. “I’m sorry,” she’d said, for the thousandth time. 

 

“I’ll forgive you,” JJ had said, eyes hard, chin raised, “if you kiss me.” 

 

Emily had been forgiven. 

 

laughter. after JJ had started spending more time there they’d figured out that Emily’s counter space was nowhere near enough for two women. so many mornings, waking up in a daze and putting on the wrong shade of lipstick (somehow, Emily’s skin is a whole different range of pale in comparison to JJ), using the wrong deodorant, bumping elbows and haggling for space with “excuse me” and “sorry” echoing in the little room. 

 

they’d figured out a schedule, with Emily making breakfast on some days while JJ gets ready, switching the order on others. they make it work. 

 

love. in the shower, when they realize how difficult exactly having sex there is. Emily almost falls — JJ catches her — and they end up with far more bruises than orgasms. so JJ bends Emily over the sink counter, slides her fingers in that slick, wanting heat, and makes up for it. Emily watches herself groan, and pant, head hanging into the sink, hair mussed, cheeks red. JJ watches her, breath coming fast, face flushed, and feels Emily come around her fingers, clenching and sweet and oh so lovely. 

 

the mirror steams and Emily grins at their fuzzy reflections. she draws a heart and JJ presses a kiss to the small of her back. 

 

exhaustion. Emily sits on the toilet, head in hands, after a twelve hour layover from London. JJ brushes her teeth with her eyes closed, movements slow, lethargic. there’s blood on her cheek. not hers. Emily’s sporting bruises already going blue and black and green, head nodding. JJ gives her a kiss, dragging her feet to the bedroom and leaving a smear of toothpaste on Emily’s lip. eyes closed, Emily doesn’t notice her close the door and walks straight into it. 


	6. bedroom

****_ bedroom _

this is a space for secrets. 

 

secrets, retired and new, some small, some significant. at first, their feelings for one another. held in bated breath when Emily was alone at night, lonely, hands slipping under her waistband to tease out an imagined pleasure. then a night spent over. JJ murmuring soft truths to a sleeping Emily, hoping hard and loving harder. those secrets are retired now, no longer secrets; they’re truths, good ones, that keep them grounded and whole and smiling in the face of the darkness they fight. 

 

some new. like how JJ actually loves it when Emily wears her belt uncentered (which she will never admit). like how Emily stole JJ’s last bit of ice cream and is blaming it on Morgan (who hasn’t visited in weeks). like how JJ steals Emily’s old Yale sweatshirts and smells them until she falls asleep when they’re apart. like how Emily writes letters to JJ, ones that she keeps in a box under the bed and hopes will be a good enough gift after they walk down the aisle. 

 

some small secrets, told in quiet voices. “I want you to kiss me” and “I need you”. wordless sounds, when the clothes are on the floor and Sergio is locked outside, when JJ gasps how much she loves Emily and Emily tells her the same back with the curl of her fingers. small ones, like “I missed you today” and “this reminded me of you”. small in size but big in meaning, little things that the world doesn’t get to see. that are just between them.

 

some significant. here, on the bed, Emily had denied her emotions. here, JJ had shouted, eyes glimmering and voice raw, had demanded the truth. there they’d fought and talked and loved and told each other the things they’d never said before — the fears and the hates and the dreads. here, Emily had admitted the truth. JJ had kissed her with broken secrets on her lips. 

 

it’s no secret that they love each other. not anymore. 

 

it’s also a space for growth, for them to help each other up, to give each other truths and intertwine their hearts together even further. like roots of a tree, vines twining up a pole, they grow around each other. support. nourishment. they blossom and wither and survive through the seasons and when spring comes, the buds open to the sun and they burst with color. 

 

to Emily, loving Jennifer Jareau feels a lot like drowning and a lot like immolation. contrary to popular belief, Emily Prentiss feels as much as the next person. maybe even more. she feels so much sometimes, so much that it bursts from her chest and sharpens her words and tightens her fists. but that’s rare. rare, because she compartmentalizes; she packs things in little boxes and then puts those boxes in other containers and then into drawers into closets and into more boxes until all that’s left is cardboard. compartmentalizes, like the rooms of a battleship. sealed off from each other, to prevent contamination and sinking. 

 

JJ blasts those compartments open. she shreds them, destroys the locks and sets water flooding through everything. the cardboard gets soggy and emotions leak, they swirl like oil through everything and Emily doesn’t know how to deal with them when they’re not packed tight and neat. JJ touches her at night, whispers sweet nothings. JJ drowns her and it feels so good sometimes, drowning in love and want and the feeling of being loved back. 

 

and then sometimes it feels like burning. when JJ’s in danger. or they fight. when the bad things come so hard, one after another, and she wants to take JJ away, take her away from the darkness and hide her where there’s only light. and JJ, so selfless and kind and  _ stubborn,  _ never lets her. they fight, in the bedroom, words razor-edged and soft at the center with the intent of love, hurled with desperation because “one day it’s going to be you under that white sheet, Emily, and I can’t —” Emily chokes on emotion and it feels like she’s on fire with it, with the need to protect and the need to have. 

 

but through it all, it’s their place. their place to make love, their place to make up after arguments. their place, where limbs intertwine and hearts melt together until neither can tell them apart. 


End file.
